lot dogs, Louisville Stories, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry

lot dogs 8

[putting on the dog] fuck you
the dough faced dopaminer called
already three of his shit truck lengths
away smug exhaust hid the lost horse
gaze wore later slinking off

out of the dark parking lot

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lot dogs, Louisville Stories, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry

lot dogs 7

Aye not old but
raised by old ones
and to carry those aches
forward / greybeard /

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fiction

King of the Horse Players

10 years ago when I lived in Phoenix, I used to drink with the king of the horse players. We hung out at the same bar with an in-house OTB. He’d come in while he was out “running errands.” Getting his Caddy washed. Running out for a quart of milk. He’d bring the milk in with him and Myka the bartender would put it on the bar fridge. He usually nursed one cocktail over 4 or 5 hours and always played the 10 cent superfectas. His other rules were simple : never bet more than you can afford to say you didn’t win and always bet on the gray horse. He rarely lost. He always tipped Myka well. And he almost always forgot the milk.

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